An Alaskan in London - a Post-BoH Fanwork
by aaron.mauthe
Summary: In this Fic the Death Eaters retreated after the 2nd wizarding war to America where they began a successful takeover of the Department of Magic. after gaining complete control they move back into England, working to take the Ministry while under a false guise of peace. This tale tells of the efforts of an escaped American to rally the Order of the Phoenix to fight once again.


He had made it. He was here. Twelve whole years of running, by his count, or perhaps it had been longer, but he was here, in England. He slogged ashore. His limbs were tired. Even a Kodiak had its limits. He wondered for a moment, would he even be able to change back? He hadn't been human for so long, it would be strange to do so. At least he could remember what he'd looked like. Tall, even for an Alaskan, who grew huge in the open fields, though they too hibernated a bit in the winter, when no sun showed for days. He'd been a large man too, great muscle concealed under a layer of fat. He'd had his fill, his family had seen to it.

His family. His mother's black curly hair, his father's dark brown beard; they were nearly all that he could remember. When the death eaters managed to come to America, in semi-retreat, following the second war, most had ignored it, as most of America generally did with any crisis, believing themselves untouchable, but the wizarding community was fearful. They knew what was coming. They knew there'd be a third war, but like idiots, they waited until it was too late. Secret Death camps for muggle-borns under the guise of "terrorist camps," screened owls, and no magical persons allowed to enter or leave the States unapproved, which meant nobody came or went but Death Eaters. Despite this, Mikhail remained innocent. His parents had educated their son in private, keeping him from attending the continental schools, aware of the illegality of it, but educating him nonetheless, as was the right of parents under the former Department of Magic. They'd taught him ancient and archaic magic, but none of it dark. They'd even helped him to learn to be an animagus, since the art had been oh so secretive. He remembered midnight runs, his mother as a snowy owl, and his father as a polar bear.

Despite all his parents' caution however, the death eaters had indeed sought out the northern wizarding families for recruitment, and punishment. His parents, one related to a former Order of the Phoenix member, were spies in so far as the death eaters were concerned. When the death eaters finally attacked their home, his mother had sent him out, a letter in his hand detailing everything they'd never told him, across the snowy wastes. He'd stuck out like a sore thumb there, the black trails of smoke following him rapidly, throwing spells in pursuit. Until he got into the forest, where he managed to lost his pursuers, he had feared he would die a bear in the snowy arctic. From there, he'd crossed so many islands, swam so many seas, hopping from one island to another, relying on his fur for warmth and the sea for his meals. Ten years it had been before he got to Europe, and another two of hiding in trains that took him god knows how many places before he made it to the channel. His parents had told him of a place in England, of a people in England, old friends from their time at Hogwarts, who had perished, but whose friends lived on, and who would give him shelter.

So it was that the great grandson of Honoria Dumbledore, and the son of Argo Vance, brother of Emmeline Vance, a man more bear than human, by the hail of Mikhail Vance, crossed the English channel as a Kodiak bear, sloshed ashore, and passed out.

On his waking, Vance walked on tired feet to the nearest muggle village, a small town nearby. He concentrated, and slowly, ever so slowly, he changed. Paws became massive hands, claws became overgrown, snaggily nails, fur shrank back into hair. He looks down and growled. For all his concentration, he'd been unable to manifest clothing, though his wand holster was intact, the letter, enchanted to make it waterproof, wrapped around his wand inside it, and still attached to his lower leg.

He was skinnier than he'd ever imagined possible, his skin stretched tight across muscles that had been given no rest for a decade, the warming fat he'd remembered on his belly completely wasted away by time and malnutrition. Speaking of warming fat, this place was far too cold without it. He drew his wand, fingers clumsy after so long, and uttered a simple spell of conjuring, though his voice was so guttural as to be nothing but a growl. It did nothing, so he cleared his throat, concentrated once more, and uttered it again. He managed to conjure clothing, but it wouldn't pass as normal by any stretch, as it looked like the robes of furs that Viking wizards had worn to these lands years before.

Nevertheless, he donned them, and throwing out his wand hand, boarded the famous Knight Bus, bound for the Leaky Cauldron. There, perhaps, he could find the "Order of the Phoenix" his father had told him about—well, what little his father knew.

Martius was not, however, the only person seeking the Order. Seamus Finnigan sat at the leaky cauldron's bar, his fingers tapping on the locked case on the stool beside him, whilst sipping a Butterbeer. For an Irishman, he was notorious for his avoidance of drink, though for most people's safety, it was better that he didn't, for a drunk man dealing with explosives was indeed a dangerous thing, and he knew himself that the contents of the case seated next to him, which he tapped impatiently as he sipped, could quickly reduce all of the leaky cauldron to rubble, should he have been drunk whilst attempting to stabilize the components of his big bag of tricks.

He was waiting for Parvati Patil, who was late, as usual, and who was supposed to be helping him find out the location of the rest of the DA. They needed to reorganize. the ministry may think the death eaters were just going to walk around England, but Seamus knew better, and Dumbledore's Army needed to be ready for a fast response the moment they decided to strike. Parvati was supposed to be bringing Ron Weasley, now one of the heads of the Order of the Phoenix. He heard the creak as the door opened, and his eyes flicked to the mirror across the bar. There they were in the reflection, but another stood behind them. One who stood out even more than the aging ginger and his Indian companion. Dressed in ragged furs (and despite being nearly nothing but skin and bones) whoever he was, he was big.


End file.
